Julia Copus' poems bring humanity and light to some of our most intimate and solitary moments, repeatedly breathing life into loss. In two previous collections, she has been feted as among the most compelling poets to have emerged in recent years; now, in "The World's Two Smallest Humans", she... read more
“A Soft-edged Reed of LightThat was the house where you asked me to remainon the eve of my planned departure. Do you remember?The house remembers it – the deal tablewith the late September sun stretched on its back.As long as you like, you said, and the chairs, the clock,the diamond leaded lights in the pine-clad alcoveof that 1960s breakfast-room were our witnesses.I had only meant to stay for a weekbut you reached out a hand, the soft white cuff of your shirtopen at the wrist, and out in the yard,the walls of the house considered themselvesin the murk of the lily-pond, and it was done.Done. Whatever gods had bent to us then to whisper,Here is your remedy – take it – here, your future,either they lied or we misheard.How changed we are now, how superiorafter the end of it – the unborn children,the mornings that came with a soft-edged reed of lightover and over, the empty rooms we woke to.And yet if that same dark-haired boywere to lean towards me now, with one shy handbathed in September sun, as if to say,All things are possible – then why not this?I’d take it still, praying it might be so.Julia Copus(from "The World's Two Smallest Humans")”
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